Dear Juno Moneta

When I was financially embarrassed two years ago, I ended up writing a sorta  philosophical soliloquy just the like of this:

October 24, 2013 

Dear  Juno Moneta,

I have a bone to pick with you.This is about the philosophical  fact  I realized in the past. Do you happen to know that  you manipulate the inhabitants of this planet? You   determine  what  choices  people  should decide on. You underlie what shape of  life they should  mold.  Of course, you’re indispensable . You make life  more comfortable,but, ideally, you don’t after all.  Do you exist in the other  dimension of the universe likewise? How about afterlife or Hell if there are such things ? Is it ideal that you don’t exist at all? The world would be like a Utopia. Gee, far from it!  It would be like  a grubby  world of barbarians. You’re dystopic, indeed.

You are used to survive this  complicated world. You are invested in attaining  higher power.over the destitute. Therefore, you are the instrument of all evils, for our minds are held hostage. Much more  if you are  on  our genes; for sure  you would  replace the GOD and the god of the gods. Otherwise, you would be as nefarious as Lucifer. Ah, you must be one of the  offsprings   of  the greatest Evil , if I were deeply religious  to  put it  bluntly. No wonder  friends, families, politicians,and nations  declare wars  against one another. I may be wrong; some may have this wisdom shield.

 I don’t want to put the blame on you, for you are created by a HUMAN  himself  since the ancient civilizations  were built. Do you intend to chasen people that GOD doesn’t really  exist? Jeez, I may be wrong; I may be breaking the faith– I may be inconsistent– I may be being influenced by Dawkinsism ,or I may be   suffering from low IQ.

 From now on, you will be my master no more. I’ll  put a bridle on you. You will never ever dictate to me.

 So far, I  have been trying to  mop up  all the havoc you have  caused. I hope I can make it through , or else Harakiri or Kamikaze is the last resort.



The Puritan



When I opened my Facebook this morning , it was inundated with a spate of the posts about  my friends’ greetings on their mothers.  Aha, I  slipped my mind; yesterday , it was Mother’s  Day after all.

Most of the posts are the  perpetual , dramatic sentiments about their mothers’ indefatigable sacrifices and moral support.To express their tears of maternal affection, they uploaded the ‘selfies’ or ‘groupies’ having a date with their mothers whereas some; the old  pictures  reminiscent of how careworn their mothers used to be , to add lachrymal effect .Alas, I lost my mother’s picture, the only  ineffable memento I would have been cherishing now. Bitter I sound to be, but   the last time when I posted  such thing how I missed my mother a whole lot was in 2013:

“It’s Mothers’ Day. So what?”, muttering under my breath while reading your greeting posts. Probably because I can no longer feel the atmosphere of maternal care in our house. There’s no such a mother figure that comforts me whenever I arrive home tired,or to whom I can turn whenever I get down, or my sister gets sick. There’s no such a maternal gourmet whenever I eat my dinner. There are no such maternal household chores whenever I clean the house on weekends. There’s no such a maternal voice that can be a lullaby or music to my ears, or who can be a gossip raconteur. In other words, mother loving tender care in any other forms doesn’t exist in the house anymore. In the same way,I’m asking myself what’s the sense if I wanna post such greeting. Could the message be sent away to the other dimension of life? Could she read my post if she had a facebook in the place wherever she might be now? I don’t have the foggiest idea. Nevertheless,I like the fact how the Fate gave me such a purpose, putting on shoes how to be a mother to such an extent that it is unbearable. In doing so makes me realize the time how I acted up, how insouciant I was while she almost buckled under stress to provide us with everything she could do. 

My mother was not far different from every mother in the world ; she had this mother instinct, willing to endure and kill, if necessarily, to protect her children,but unique to her ways of expressing her loves. She was not just a very sweet mother but also a friend who bantered with us. My mother,on the other hand, was also ignorant of child psychology,but she never lacked how to discipline us with a carrot and stick. (laughs) Sometimes, her words went into one of our ears and out the other; then we got an earful from her. Oh,I miss my mom. (smiles)

 Despite the influences of the books, I want to believe that my mother would be hearing or reading my mind posting this mushy message now. I LOVE YOU,mama.Your spirit of love will never fade into oblivion in the bottom part of my heart and memory. I knew the day you departed the world that you entrusted me with your younger daughter .I will do my best.

There are times that I can not bring myself to read it again nor write another one, how I may have been so ” immature” in the eyes of the oldie or armchair critics . But , in harmony with a psychologist’s opinion,  getting over someone you have loved  and lost takes a long period of time; it could be an indelible mark you could never  escape and which   could specter  you until death .And I bear witness to this fact.

Happy Mother’s  Day to every one! ^^

Guilty Pleasure ( Diary of a Book Addict #1

I am sick. I am diagnosed with a chronic illness only bookworms can understand , how and what  it feels like. For sure, if you find it out,  you might bubble an idea of idiosyncrasies.

I am sick. Whenever I drop into  my favorite stomping ground,  it takes me time to decide whether I should buy the ones  I have dug out  from the mountain of books. Thinking about the moral consequences I could face in the future. How much do I still have in my  purse? Have I checked the list of the monthly fees  I   have to get by on? Could I sacrifice allotting my little stipend ? My brain is undecided, up in the air. One at  a time, another thoughts dictating to my  vulture  brain , saturated with guilty pleasures. It wants to wolf down on a genre : Galileo’s Daughter. Shit! It is  a historical non-fiction. I love such genre. Restless, I looked around, paging through the books, peering at their spines , assuming an air of pretense that I wanted to buy them. I was in a dilemma of choosing what is right or wrong. Then…then…then..somewhere the darkest  corner of  my mind comes the  sound , “ Get on with it!You are gonna finish another one.” Here we go! putting back the book.  Haist! Here it goes again.  A guilty feeling   is coming over me. My mind and conscience are engaging in a dispute.

Good grief! (sighs)